


Leanan Sidhe

by lantadyme



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-02
Updated: 2011-07-02
Packaged: 2017-10-20 23:21:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/218213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lantadyme/pseuds/lantadyme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You make music. I would like to see how you do it."</p><p>Faeries are real, man.  [AU]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Leanan Sidhe

He meets her in the record shop, halfway through the teaser for some particularly bland all-grime-and-no-substance dubstep album. She sidles up next to him, her fingertips brushing the breakcore CDs and her gaze downcast, and for once in his life Dave actually looks up and takes notice of someone else around him. She's short and thin and curvy, gorgeous wavy black hair down to her ass and an attractive smear of deep red lipgloss over her mouth. Latina, he thinks. Beautiful, he thinks, even though he's barely old enough to use that word for things other than photography technique. And then she turns her head, her eyes meeting his straight through black lenses, and that's when his heart stops.

Her eyes are an exotic, enticing orange, like cat's eyes or snake's eyes without the vertical pupil, and something about those eyes hooks into him like spider silk and bronze. There's something throbbing behind that gaze, something magical and feral and alive, and Dave forgets to breathe for a long moment as she stares into him with all the depth of a universe.

He slips the headphones down around his neck. His chest is full of weird tension and he grasps for his cool, thinking that if he messes this up it's the end of his world.

"Name's Dave," he says, smooth as silk and offering a hand.

She doesn't move at first. She glances at the hand and as she breaks the gaze the magic flutters in the air, palpable. She meets his eyes again, the orange like live molten lead and echoing like an ocean, and then she slips her tiny warm hand into his. "Aradia."

Her hand feels like sunshine on his skin. "Haven't seen you in here before."

"No. This is my first visit," she says, her voice hollow and empty and nothing like he'd imagined it. She should be a wellspring of life with eyes like that and something about her is all backward. Her eyes drift over the CDs under her hands, considering, and then she looks right through his shades again. "You make music."

She asks it like it's not a question; like it's a certainty and she just knows. Shitty dubstep billows out of his headphones and he nods, words escaping him with this creature holding his gaze.

"I would like to see how you do it."

There's some kind of power in those words, washing hot in his ears and curling against his heart. It seems to crawl in his ear and into his mind, whispering warm and influencing, and Dave should say, _Sure, how about next week_. He should say, _Stop by the shop tomorrow at three and I'll give you a show_. Instead he says, "Okay, my apartment's a couple of blocks from here."

Inside he feels like he's betraying Bro, like he's falling into a trap he can't see, but right here in this moment with her magic in the air, he doesn't care.

\---

She hovers at his elbow and her expression never changes, her mouth small despite the lipgloss and her eyes burning with fire. The hollowness is spread thick across her face and Dave thinks that he'll fix that. He'll show her something that'll make that passion in her eyes spill into the rest of her and fill her up.

His turntables are warm and running, records pulled from their sleeves and at the ready. His fingers twitch, the magic heavy in the air. He can feel it hot in his chest, the intensity pulsating with each breath like a massive animal heartbeat, and his entire body seems to vibrate with it—the pure, raw creative energy near overflowing and if he doesn't start now he's sure he's going to explode.

The beat drops, a regular 4/4 at first, but then locking with complexities as Dave works the drum machine. He cues the records, spinning the bassline and a hint of a melody, his hands moving fast and touching the vinyl, switching his samples and his CDs and weaving everything intricately.

He goes with breakcore. It's what she'd been looking at, what she'd been browsing, and somehow he knows the raw energy in the room is spilling out of her. He's never felt like this before, never felt this inspired with the music coursing through him, the subwoofer vibrating the floor and his ears and the records perched on the edge of the table. The Amen break twists to his will, pieces of it scattered all over his drumline, and the melody jumps and distorts beautifully.

God, this is an amazing track.

He's smiling, he realizes. His face is pulled back into the smirk he's seen on his brother's face a thousand times at every set, and no wonder, if it always feels as amazing as this. The magic in the air pulses with the bassline, the room buzzing with more than just sound, and Aradia sets a hand to his shoulder so hot he can feel it straight through his shirt. She's burning, fucking burning with the raw liquid creativity and he cannot stop smiling.

Hot hot, so hot, her hand on fucking fire and it _sears_. It _burns_ and he can smell it, smell the fire on his shirt, but he can't stop mixing. His hands are moving so fast, tweaking the bass and the drums and the rap samples. He can't stop even when he tries, and that's when he starts to feel it—starts to feel the twitching primal energy pour out of him. It's been building in his chest like a thick honey liquid, raw and powerful and tingling, and her hand is _searing into his fucking shoulder_ , burning his flesh, and he feels the magic flow like sunshine out of the pit of his soul into the sucking hot coals of her hand.

It burns like ice, like cold iron hooks raking gashes through the hollow it leaves behind.

Dave's hands stop. The records keep spinning, the drum machine still ticking in the background but his hands fall limp at his sides, his posture sagging and his energy gone. He swallows, hungry and thirsty for something he doesn't know how to replenish. He looks over to her, to Aradia, and she's on fire now. She's burning, but not with flames. She's burning with passion, her face lit up and grinning and as full of life as he had been a second before.

She leans toward him, her mouth to his ear, and he's suddenly too tired to even pull away. "Thank you, Dave," she whispers, all friendly beaming smiles like she's not a predator and he's not broken prey. "I was so hungry."

"Glad—" he stops, not sure what he was going to say. Not enough creativity or energy left to give that classic Strider punch line. "—Yeah."

She kisses him, hot red lips pressed to his forehead, and then she simply vanishes, her magic and her energy and the very flesh of her bones exploding in a shining sparkle of shattered sunlight to leave Dave standing alone in the darkness of his hot, empty room.

She stole his life force, he thinks. She ate his creativity. And Dave knows he's supposed to be mad, supposed to be fucking pissed with this broken half of music still playing in his ear, but actually—

Strangely—

He's 0kay with it.


End file.
